Grown Ups
by Elise May
Summary: He is the ex-husband of her ex-husband's ex-wife, a woman who also happens to be her ex-best mate. Complicated doesn't even come into it – but then neither does love. (Apparently.)
1. i

_I don't know what I'm doing. I am a casual viewer of Corrie at best, but there is something about these two that has really piqued my interest. Do people even like this pairing? I didn't at first, but now it seems that the more I see, the more I want..._

 _This will be a series of short vignettes that will follow most of what happens in the show, although a few things are likely to change, depending on the direction Blackburn decides to take. I am also likely to be a few weeks behind with these, so bear with me – and enjoy_ _! (I hope.)_

* * *

 **Grown Ups**

* * *

 _i_

* * *

A warmth.

It starts at the back of her neck, is at its greatest across her back, but is absent from her lower body, so much so that the lack of it causes her to wake.

She blinks sleep from her eyes, but remains flush against pillows less comfortable than what she is used to waking upon. The couch rips at her exposed skin as she peels herself from it, settling into an upright position. It is then that she discovers the source of the warmth – a blanket draped around her shoulders.

That's odd.

She's sure she fell asleep without one on.

Stretching her legs, which have grown increasingly numb over the course of her nap, Carla stares blankly at the television, noticing that it has been switched off. She closes her eyes, trying – and failing – to remember what she was last doing before sleep took hold. The pieces only come together once she reopens her eyes to find upon the coffee table two drained wine glasses, a half-empty (never half-full) bottle of Merlot, and a note.

A note from Nick.

 _Sweet dreams, Mrs. Connor._

She smiles with a warmth she'd almost forgotten existed within herself.

Reaching for her phone, she manages to type out and send a quick text message.

 _Goodnight, Nick. x_

The kiss isn't even an afterthought.

* * *

She should have seen this coming.

He's been hovering around her for weeks. Always there for her when she needs him to be, always kind and chivalrous, offering her an ear to natter into at the end of a particularly long day. It's funny, she supposes, that she hasn't noticed these things about him before: the way his brow creases when he thinks too hard, the fact that his laugh is always a chuckle, an answer to a question she never has to ask.

There's an ease about him. He puts her at ease whenever he is near. There is no hidden agenda, no ulterior motive. He is not in pieces, not anymore. He was broken once, as was she, but because of who he is, and because of who he wanted to be, he put himself back together again. She admires him for that; she admires a lot about him these days.

She should have seen this coming.

* * *

What has she been blinded by?

He's honest. Too honest at times. He bribes her with wine, free food from the Bistro; flattering her with compliments she doesn't believe she is deserving of – but he never makes her feel obliged to give him anything in return. Stubbornly, she never does.

(She just smiles, pokes fun at him, and offers him a couch to crash on when he is too intoxicated to move.)

It seems that they have more in common than what she had originally thought. Not that she'd ever given it, _them_ , much thought at all – not even in the days when they used to share an office, a factory; a livelihood. Before, he was just Nick. Now, he is Nicholas. Now, she links his arm in the street. Now, she lingers after bidding him goodnight, waiting for something neither wants to give the other first.

They are different people, somehow.

She can't help but be grateful for that.

* * *

It is her flat, but it is his excuse.

"I thought I'd check up on the laptop," he says, and she doesn't believe him. She isn't that naïve.

"The laptop?" she asks, her face deadpan.

"Yes. The laptop that I very kindly fixed for you last week." He grins, making a gesture towards the open door behind her and adding before she is able to contradict him, "May I see it?"

"Why?" She elongates the word.

He takes a step closer, a step that she pretends not to notice.

"Because..."

He doesn't have to elaborate because she has already let him in.

Tightening the belt of her gown around her, Carla does wonder why she is so at ease with having a (somewhat) strange man in her home when dressed in such a candid manner. This is the Carla Connor only few people know exist. The one who leaves her hair unbrushed, her face unpainted – but she can feel his eyes on her regardless, appreciative eyes that are making her pulse jump in a way that it has not for far, far too long.

"Here it is." She speaks quickly, locating the laptop and holding it up at a number of different angles, something which causes Nick's frame to shake with mirth. "What?" She suppresses the urge to look at his, dare she say, wonderous expression. "Here it is. As good as you left it."

"So I see."

She places it down. The air between them begins to feel thick and heavy, the lack of a distraction evident with an element of danger, for now there are no more excuses as to why he is here. Almost desperately, Carla looks for something to fill it. Her eyes are trained to the floor.

"Is that it? Or—"

"Would you like—"

They speak at the same time. Nick laughs sheepishly; Carla can feel herself blushing.

She bites her lip.

"What were you going to say?" she asks.

He meets her eyes with a confidence he doesn't particularly feel.

"It's just that I noticed a rather large bottle of Merlot in your kitchen, and I was wondering whether you would share it with me."

Laughter, and a feeling akin to relief, bubbles in her throat.

She pretends to be indifferent to his wondering when, in actual fact, she is anything but.

"You remember where the glasses are kept, don't you?"

* * *

A day passes and they are in his kitchen, searching for scraps to make a meal with. She doesn't question why. Nick simply suggested the idea and asked the question _why not?_

" _Oh_."

She is unprepared for his hands when they fall upon her waist.

"Sorry," he says, somewhere close to her ear.

She shivers and he notices, lets go, and brushes past her to continue their search within the confines of his fridge.

It is almost empty, but she doesn't feel that way anymore.

"It's alright," she replies.

He throws her a smile over his shoulder, slight and unassuming.

She smiles back.

* * *

He balances the laptop upon his thighs, reading from the screen through drooping eyelids.

"Tea or coffee?"

She raises a brow.

"Coffee," he answers for her.

She doesn't attempt to hide how impressed she is. Almost five years have passed since she last convinced him to make her a cup, after all.

"Silver or gold?"

"Silver," she replies.

"Dress up or dress down?"

She points to what she is wearing, subconsciously adjusting the bobble that is holding her messy bun in place. She is comfortable around Nick, perhaps a little _too_ comfortable around Nick, but not enough for him to see her wet hair in all its (un)natural glory.

"Right," he says, the uplifted corners of his mouth the only sign of his amusement.

Carla gently rests her head against his forearm. Nick reacts to this inwardly, but not outwardly. He daren't for the fear of scaring her away.

She hums softly. "Continue."

He does.

"Cats or dogs?"

"Really?" When he shrugs, she replies, somewhat reluctantly, "Cats."

"Um, jazz or classical?"

"Depends."

"Yeah," he agrees. "I'm with you there. _Oh_ , how about this one: fact or fiction?"

"Fact."

She reads the next question in her head before he has chance to say it aloud. Her stomach flips pleasantly, even more so when he reads it out in a whisper.

(God, she'd almost forgotten what _pleasant_ feels like.)

"Love or lust?"

She can feel his eyes on her; he is expecting some sort of response. She sits up, throwing her head back against the settee in a fashion that can only be described as dramatic.

Is it just her face that's burning?

"Lust," she says, not wanting to defy her reputation after years of maintaining it in such a sorry state.

There is a long pause.

Carla swallows, and without taking his eyes from her, Nick closes the laptop lid.

"Truth or dare?" he asks. That confidence is back again, the one he's only ever been able to imitate when around her.

They now seem to be playing a different game entirely.

Carla decides to act coy. "Dare," she says.

"You sure?"

She shrugs her shoulders.

"Why? Do I have to be?"

The words are there, caught in the back of his throat – but his mobile rings before he is able to let them escape his lips.

 _Mum calling..._

Nick isn't sure which is the most drawn out: the ringing, his groan at the ringing, or her laugh at his groan as a result of the ringing.

"I'd better take this," he says, rolling his eyes at the offending item.

She pats his arm with faux sympathy.

"I think you better had."

* * *

 _I own nothing._


	2. ii

_Thank you so much for the reviews! I was certainly not expecting a response quite as positive as the one I have received, so I am pleasantly surprised. I am very glad people seem to be liking this so far – and to answer a fairly common question, there are still a lot more chapters to come. Basically, for as long as Carla and Nick are onscreen, this fanfic will be updated._

 _You are not mistaken. This fic was originally entitled "Adults" until I changed it to "Grown Ups". I rewatched a scene and realised that I had misremembered some dialogue. Silly me!_

* * *

 **Grown Ups**

* * *

 _ii_

* * *

"Sorry," she says, reentering the room. She pockets her phone as she sits down beside him.

He smiles at her.

"Who was it?" he asks. "If you don't mind my prying, that is."

Carla shakes her head.

"Of course not. It was just Ryan, asking when Michelle's birthday is. He thought it might have been today for some reason." She laughs, and he joins in with her. "Don't get me wrong. Ryan's a lovely lad, but I'd be lying if I said he wasn't the reason Paul and I never had kids."

She's quiet after that, as she always is when remembering Paul. It never gets any easier. He was the first man she allowed herself to trust who was not a blood relation. He was also the first man to let her down spectacularly, though he certainly was not the last. Nonetheless, she'd dreamt of a future with him, a future with less passion and more practicality than what either of them had needed, but it had been a future she believed in.

A future she's sure she would have been content with had things turned out differently.

Nick leaves her be, sensing that she is thinking of something he should not make himself a part of.

Eventually, when the silence stretches on for a beat too long, he places a hand on her arm and gently asks, "Have you never wanted children, then?"

Her heart sinks down to her knees. The pain is still fresh, even though a year has passed.

"There was a time when I did, yes." Upon realising his mistake, Nick curses under his breath and is about to apologise when Carla hastily adds, smiling bravely through a lump in her throat, "But apart from that, no. The thought of having children has never really crossed my mind. I'm not a particularly maternal person."

He snorts before he can stop himself.

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Well, tough. Because I do," says Carla, matter-of-factly. "And I think Simon Barlow would agree with me, too. Bar Ryan, he's the only other kid I've ever had any experience with – and you and I both know how he felt about that."

Nick smirks beneath his hand. Carla kicks him before quirking a brow in triumph.

"See? Even you can't argue with that," she points out. "Simon hated me. He probably still does!"

He rolls his eyes at the melodrama.

"Why?" he replies. "Because you were responsible for the breakdown of his parents' marriage?" Carla nods. "Well, that's nonsense, because I was responsible for that, too, and he never hated me."

It takes her a moment to realise what he is implying. The smug look on his face is what gives him away.

"Oi!" she says, kicking him again – but harder this time.

She wishes his smirk weren't quite so contagious, for they are soon grinning at one another. Nick rubs at where she has injured him. There is a pout upon his lips; he is in search of an apology.

He does not receive one.

"Come on, Carla! I admit, there are many reasons why a kid may hate you, but the fact that you are a homewrecker—"

"Excuse me." She interrupts him, indignant. "I _was_ a homewrecker. Past tense, thank you very much."

She shuffles in her seat as if doing so will, in some way, make her point more plausible.

"Fine," he says amusedly, holding up his hands in a form of surrender. "The fact that you _were_ a homewrecker probably isn't the most prominent one."

She stares at him until her resolve finally cracks.

Carla reaches for the nearest pillow and wastes no time in launching it at his head.

* * *

It's been a while since she can say she's had a mate. A proper mate, that is: someone who can double up as a drinking partner, who can make her laugh until her sides hurt, someone who she can judge others around and not feel guilty about it afterwards.

If she's being honest, Carla has only ever had one proper mate in her life and that mate was Leanne. Finding a mate in Leanne's ex-husband probably isn't the best idea she's ever had, but it wasn't hers in the first place.

It was Nick's.

 _Friends_.

They're friends, he says, and when spoken from his lips, the word makes her feel light and heavy at the same time; it is overwhelming and underwhelming in equal measure.

They've never been friends before. A few weeks ago, the thought of being anything more filled her with dread. It made her feel sick.

But not now.

 _She_ feels differently now; and she feels differently about Nick, too.

* * *

It is Roy who gets her thinking, his casual comment causing her mind to wonder into territory previously left untouched.

His niece only makes matters worse, her interference more welcome than Carla will care to admit.

* * *

She kisses him. Twice.

Their first kiss is awkward. She is drunk and he is sweet. It is short, abrupt; just shy of catching his lips. She doesn't allow him to kiss her back, but he wants to. If he could steal time like she can steal breath, he would've done, too – and he isn't sure he would've been able to stop.

Their second kiss is also a peck. He is surprised by it, she can tell, and in many ways, so is she. They are out in public again, in the company of his sister, and perhaps this is what spurs her on, perhaps this is what gives her the courage to call him _lover_ for all to hear.

She feels brave for the first time in what seems to be forever, exceptionally so if the fact that she is sober is taken into account.

Nothing can happen in the street. There can be no conversations about feelings, no proper reciprocation. She uses this to her advantage. She is safe only when in control, only when she is able to predict the outcome.

She prefers it this way, his eyes lingering upon her as she walks away from him, almost in awe of her.

She is in awe of herself.

* * *

A date is arranged and cancelled within the duration of a single evening.

Liz's best mate is pregnant. Correction: Liz's best mate is pregnant with Nick's baby.

Carla remembers Erica only by name. She has some brief recollection of an older, busty blonde woman hanging off his arm. She had been around at Christmas and at New Year, a permanent fixture in his flat by the sounds of things; a permanent fixture in his bed if the rumours she's heard are true.

They became notorious on the street – Nick and his cougar.

She'd teased him about it, too.

 _We've all been there_ , she'd said to him one night. _All women go through this phase at some point in their lives._

She had eaten her meal and was biding her time.

Nick, alone at the bar with a brooding expression she'd actually taken pity on, had been intrigued by her cryptic words.

 _What phase?_

She'd grinned wickedly at him.

 _The cougar phase._

He hadn't appeared to believe her, asking Carla whether she had been through one herself.

Her grin had only grown wider at that.

 _Of course_ , she'd replied. _You've met Steph's brother, haven't you?_

At the time, Nick had been looking happier than she had seen him in months, and who was she – or anyone else, for that matter – to begrudge him of a little fun? Then, she had been able to find humour in the setup and plenty of it; but she can't find any now.

The memory is actually a rather painful one to think back on as she knows what it has resulted in.

She encouraged him, after all. She let this happen.

 _Amused_ is no longer the first word which springs to mind.

Nick's first word is _gutted_. He talks about bad timing and apologises emptily, for Carla knows he will never be sorry for his child's existence, and nor should he be.

If she were to have a word, it would have to _jealous –_ but only on the surface. Beneath it lies a word with far more substance and far more impact when _again_ is added to the end of it: _alone_.

* * *

"You've been avoiding me."

It isn't a lie.

"I have, haven't I?" she replies, smiling half-heartedly up at him.

He leans against the doorframe, watching her with eyes as heavy as her own. Part of her wants to believe that he has been waiting for her to return, waiting to talk to her and ease the tension, but everything is still too new to her – and it is to him, too.

There has been a shift in the way their relationship works. Gone is the ease of before, replaced with the burden of hesitance and pretense.

He no longer feels like a friend.

"How's Erica?"

The question is soft. It is necessary, she thinks, to show him that there are no hard feelings between them.

 _Feelings..._

She begs her heart to still.

"Still pregnant," Nick replies, exhaling deeply through his nose.

Carla is taken aback by this. Not at the news, for she spent most of the previous evening coming to terms with that, but at Nick's reaction to it.

She thought he'd be happier than what he presently appears to be.

"She's keeping the baby, then?"

He nods. For some reason – fatigue, perhaps – his eyes are shiny and they never make it past her chin.

"Yeah. She is," he says. He seems to have woken up a little now, lips twitching into something of a smile.

He's touched that she has brought up the subject, touched that she cares for it when she has every right not to.

Carla tilts her head at him.

"Well, in that case, why have you got a face like a wet weekend?" she asks, her attempt at teasing him falling flat.

He shrugs, arms crossing over his chest.

"Family stuff," he says.

"Oh, of course. David's found out about Sarah and Callum, hasn't he?"

"I'm afraid so."

She places a hand on his arm. "It was only a matter of time, Nick. You knew that."

He nods his agreement.

In total, they talk for three hours. One is spent in the corridor, time nothing but a slight inconvenience. He eventually asks her in, and she cannot convince herself to say no, the fact that he is soon to be a father mattering less and less to her.

Until it does.


	3. iii

_Hello! I'm sorry that I'm so behind with this, but thank you for your continued support!_

* * *

 **Grown Ups**

* * *

 _iii_

* * *

It matters when they are in the company of others, when they are being stared at and talked about in the Bistro in a way that simply could not be less discrete.

He knows it.

She knows it.

And it's awkward.

He can't look her in the eye, for he knows that he could so easily give himself away by doing so. All of his smiles are directed at the table, too, and she doesn't bother smiling at all.

There has to be a problem between them if people are noticing one. Carla just isn't quite sure what the problem is.

Or so she tells herself.

* * *

The next time she sees him, he has his sister and niece in tow.

"We're moving in with Uncle Nicky," says Bethany in that irritating voice of hers.

No matter how much the girl grates on Carla's nerves, she can't help but admire her. Bethany reminds her far too much of herself when she was her age, not that she will be telling anybody that.

Least of all Nick.

Carla smiles.

"Oh, really?"

"Really," says Nick beneath a sea of suitcases.

Sarah, being her usual, helpful self, simply walks ahead of him to the flat, taking her handbag from him as she passes. Carla cannot resist frowning at her and it is a frown that Sarah happily returns.

"How come?" she asks.

"Uncle David's kicked us out because Mum's seeing Callum," explains Bethany. She sighs. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

Carla honestly does not know what she means by that; and if Nick's reaction is anything to go by, he doesn't want her to find out.

"Come on, Beth. Let's get you unpacked," he says, hurriedly. He gives Carla an apologetic look. "I'm sorry for the inevitable disturbance you're going to be on the receiving end of for as long as they're staying here."

She tuts.

"Don't worry, Uncle Nicky." She takes one of the bags from him to relieve his arms, grinning at him in a way that manages to sweeten his sour mood considerably. "I'm used to being disturbed by my neighbours, aren't I?"

* * *

Her coffee grew cold long ago, but her chair is still warm and the cafe is still open.

She occupies the window seat, staring out into the street with an almost wistful look in her eyes. It's raining, as it always seems to be around these parts, and she misses the sun. She longs for it.

It seems that these days the sun isn't the only thing she longs for.

At first, she pretends not to notice him, but that feeling is there again; that pull in the centre of her being; that need for _him_ to notice _her_ first, to smile at her first, to talk to her first.

It's pathetic how much she wants to feel wanted, how much she wants him to want her.

It is only when she raises her head to beckon him over through the glass, despite this being what her gut is telling her _not_ to do, that she sees that he is not alone.

(He can never be alone now. She's been a fool not to realise that.)

He waves at her as she comes into his line of sight, and she shyly waves back. Erica would be blind not to notice the way his face has lighten up, but she keeps her observations to herself, linking his arm tighter as they cross the road and continue their journey away from the cafe.

Carla knows that they'll be talking about her.

 _Who's that?_ Erica will ask.

 _Oh, that's just my friend, Carla_ , Nick'll say. _She's a right laugh, Carla._

She doesn't feel like laughing now, but she is fine. She really is ( _f_ eeling _i_ nsecure, _n_ umb and _e_ mpty).

* * *

It gets worse.

It gets much, much worse.

Erica stays the night with him and Carla knows this, but she pretends not to in the same way she pretends it doesn't bother her.

(It does.)

She catches him smirking at her as she drives into work the next morning. She finds that she is more intrigued than irritated, and this is what annoys her – his ability to change how she feels when he has absolutely no right to. No right at all.

"What're you gorping at, Tilsley?"

She slams the car door shut and locks it, brows raised.

He points down at his watch.

"You're early," he tells her, as if this piece of information is new to her.

"Yes, I am." She doesn't know what to say, and she hates it. "You're looking rather happy this morning."

Her words are found from somewhere, forced out of her mouth, and spoken to the ground. She thinks she knows what's coming, the inevitable _Erica and I are getting back together for the baby_ , but Nick stops smiling all of a sudden and begins to look solemn.

"Do I? Well, I shouldn't. David's up in court today."

She's managed to reach his side without having been aware that her legs were moving towards him in the first place.

"And let me guess." She smiles as he does. He can't help himself. "You're happy about that because it means you get to take the day off work?"

He nods.

"Of course," he says.

She studies his face for a long moment, adjusts the lapel of his jacket, and begins to walk away from him before she gets too carried away with herself.

"Well, you look very smart," she calls over to him.

He is wearing a new suit. He doesn't wear much else, a fact that Carla has come to resent, for men who consider suits to be casualwear have always been her weakness, and she needs to be strong around Nick. She needs to learn some self-control.

As she climbs the steps to the factory, she manages to hear his muttered reply of, "Don't I always?"

She grins to herself, her back turned to him.

"Yes, you do," she whispers.

* * *

After his brother has appeared in court and Michelle's wedding has been prepared for, she buys shares in the pub and almost forgets how complicated they'd be together.

 _Almost_.

"Here she is." She hears him before she sees him, the excited timbre in his voice an echo down the corridor she feels deep in her chest. "The blushing bride!"

"Don't, Nick," says Carla. "Her head's already so big I'm surprised she can fit it through the door."

Michelle positively gushes on her arm. She squeezes it tighter and then she lets go altogether to address Nick with a bright smile.

"Hello, Nick," she says, opening the door of Carla's flat and taking her bags, and herself, into it – though not before she has winked at Carla and made a rather wild hand gesture behind Nick's back, mouthing the words, _go for it!_

How Carla manages to keep a straight face is something of a mystery.

"So, is Michelle staying here tonight?" Nick asks, trying to act casual.

"Yeah. Steve was supposed to be staying with Lloyd, but—"

His amused laugh cuts her off.

"Isn't he currently on a one-way boat trip to Norway?"

"Well, yes. Exactly." She shakes her head at the absurdity of the situation. "It'd be unsafe to let Steve stay with Andrea tonight, especially in the state we've just left her in, so I suggested that Michelle came and stayed with me instead."

They're quiet.

"Anyway, how are you?" she asks, noticing that there are dark circles underneath his eyes that seem to age him. She places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You look tired."

"I am tired. I've just spent the best part of an evening trying to convince my family that Erica hasn't just got herself pregnant for the sole purpose of ruining my life."

Carla has to think carefully about what she says next.

"I'm guessing that didn't go down very well."

"No, it didn't," replies Nick.

Before she can say anything else, she feels an arm wrap around her waist. Michelle is suddenly by her side, resting her head against Carla's shoulder and grinning uncontrollably.

She is looking at Nick with knowing eyes and it puts him off slightly.

"Have I missed something?" he asks.

"Do you want to tell him or shall I?" says Michelle.

Carla sighs dramatically.

"Fine!" She pauses. "Tomorrow, Nick, instead of marrying Steve, Michelle is actually going to be marrying me. We've been having a secret, lesbian affair for years and tomorrow is the day we're finally going to declare our love for one another to the world."

He snorts and she smirks. Michelle looks between the two of them and smiles.

"Ignore her! What she really meant to say is that she's bought shares in the Rovers!"

 _"What?"_

Nick truly does look shocked.

"You heard right," says Carla, almost proudly.

"You've bought into the competition?" He has an incredulous expression on his face.

"Oh, yes, and I did it for the sole purpose of stealing your custom and shutting down your business."

They are teasing each other, but there is a heated moment between them as they lock eyes. They frustrate Michelle immensely.

"What are you doing tomorrow, Nick?" she asks, perfectly innocently.

He blinks himself out of it as Carla blushes, feeling that she has been caught out.

"Tomorrow?" he asks.

"Yes," says Michelle. "Carla is in need of a date to the wedding—" She continues, even as Carla elbows her in the ribs and throws her a look that has the potential to kill. "—and if you're available, I can think of no reason why you couldn't take her."

Carla, on the other hand, can think of plenty.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I can't." And he looks it, soft eyes focusing on Carla as he speaks directly to her. She can't deny that that makes her heart beats just the slightest bit faster. "I've got this trade show in Birmingham, you see. Otherwise, I'd have loved to."

She smiles in a way she hopes is encouraging, deciding to ignore her disappointment and focus on reassuring him.

"It's fine, Nick. Honestly! I'm a big girl." She turns to Michelle. "I don't need a date to the wedding, alright?"

Michelle rolls her eyes.

"Whatever you say, babe." She pats Carla's arm. "Whatever you say."

* * *

After a drunken chorus of _You're blushing! You're blushing, Carla! Nick Tilsley actually made you blush!_ Michelle wears herself out and ends up falling asleep on the sofa, the combination of alcohol and excitement in her blood too much for her body to handle.

Carla takes this opportunity to make a start on the champagne. She's in bed before midnight with a rather large bottle of it, feeling as bold as she does classy. The temptation of sending Nick a text is too much for her to resist.

 _A trade show in Birmingham, eh? Nice excuse. I shall have to use that one some time._

His first reply is quick.

 _I know it sounds like an excuse, but it isn't one. Honestly, Carla. Scout's honour._

She types back _, Oh, please. I don't know which is more unbelievable: the trade show or the fact that you were supposedly a scout._

She finds a clean glass on her bedside table to pour the champagne into, not caring how it got there.

 _I was! You can ask my mum if you don't believe me._

He is _such_ a mummy's boy. She smirks at him, even though she knows he can't see her.

 _I'm alright, thanks._

He concedes defeat.

 _Fair enough – but just for the record, I'd have loved to have gone to the wedding with you._

She leaves the glass and simply takes a swig from the bottle in an effort to calm her nerves.

 _Why?_

There is no pause between messages.

 _Because I'd have been your date._

Her hand shakes as she types, _And?_

 _And we never did have that date, did we?_

Her stomach flips. She suddenly finds that it is hard to swallow and her duvet is far too thick to be kept on.

She shrugs it off.

 _Shut up, Nick, and go to sleep._

She has no idea how much time and consideration is taken in him typing out the next five character text message.

 _No. x_

She has such a stupid smile on her face.

 _YES! x_

Unfortunately, he doesn't text her again. The only reason this is unfortunate is because it makes Carla like him all the more for doing as she tells him to, rather than doing what she tells him _not_ to.

He's so genuine and decent that it causes a physical ache in her chest.

She finishes the champagne and sleeps soundly for hours, waking up to Michelle's happy face that she soon matches with one of her own.


	4. iv

_This is better late than never, right? I wish it could be a happier update, but Carla isn't Carla unless she's hating herself, apparently..._

* * *

 **Grown Ups**

* * *

 _iv_

* * *

It's a voice she hasn't heard for a long time and it is calling her name, dragging her under until she can't breathe, until everything is dark and dead and all she wants to do is scream.

But she can't.

 _Carla._

That face. That beautiful, smug face that belongs in the deepest pits of hell – and yet has somehow earned its place at heaven's door. It stopped haunting her years ago, but it's here now. Taunting her, belittling her.

 _You look fantastic! Fight me, fight me until death do us part!_

She can see him through the flames. He's the same man he always was, with the same smirk permanently etched onto his lips, the same sadistic look in his eyes she knows she should never have trusted.

He's set her on fire. He's left her to die. And he's happy about it.

He's always happy about it until she decides to fight back.

 _Oh, feisty! That's why I fell in love with you!_

 _"Amy!"_

The name appears to come out of nowhere, but it forces Carla to open her eyes and wake up from what she has never been able to regard as a dream or a nightmare.

It is simply a memory.

She isn't in the factory; she is lay on the street. Tony is dead and rotting in the ground, and Roy Cropper is holding her head in his hands. Her heart is beating so erratically that there is no doubt in her mind that she is alive. She is _too_ alive, if anything; her senses heightened by the fact that death still seems to follow her wherever she goes.

It is currently clinging to her clothes in the form of smoke. Her bones feel weak, skin filthy, body heavy.

Carla opens her mouth to speak, to ask a question she almost doesn't want to know the answer to, but there is no moisture in her throat. She can barely swallow, coughs and splutters all she is capable of.

Roy squeezes her injured hand, but she feels no pain. She feels numb.

She feels _drunk_.

"Amy's fine," he informs her. "And you are, too. At least, you will be once the ambulance arrives."

Her bottom lip quivers. She can hear the emergency services somewhere off in the distance, a family screaming behind her for something – _someone_ – they can never, ever get back.

There is a taste akin to that of burning flesh in her mouth and it is knocking her sick – though that sickness is nothing when faced with the hatred she can see in Leanne's eyes, burning brighter and hotter than any fire ever could.

* * *

When Nick says he had been worried, he is bending the truth slightly.

Worried would've been him expressing concern for his friend's life and accepting his step-father's assurances that everything was fine.

If he had been worried, he would not have overreacted.

He would not have interrogated Michael over the phone about Carla's wellbeing. He would not have booked himself on the first train home in the morning and calmed only once David had informed him that Micheal had not been underestimating what had happened, and had, in fact, been telling the truth.

(A worried man would also have wondered about the state of his flat – which Nick had not spared even a thought to.)

A hug in the street is all they manage, but Nick wants more than that.

He wants _so much_ more than that.

It's just a shame that it takes a fire for him to realise it.

* * *

Carla stares at her bandaged hand through bleary eyes.

She can't sleep. She doesn't even want to. She lets the guilt eat away at her, lets herself be her own worst enemy.

A person has died because of her drunkenness.

A child has been emotionally scarred for life because she had one drink too many.

Roy's knock, careful and controlled, against the door of the spare room she must now make the most of almost doesn't register with her.

"Carla?" He sounds unsure, but then he usually does whenever they converse. "Carla, there's someone here to see you."

Her stomach lurches. The blame she is inflicting onto herself is bad enough to deal with without having to add other people's onto it.

"What?" She gets up off the bed and looks around the room for one of Michelle's hoodies she picked up earlier from the pub. She throws one on and quickly runs her fingers through her hair in an attempt to salvage what's left of its straightness. "It's not Tracy, is it, Roy? Because if she's here to have another go at me, I'm not coming out. I mean it."

"It's not Tracy," says a voice that certainly isn't Roy's.

"Nick?"

Carla pulls open the door to be met with his softly smiling face. Roy hovers in the background, looking awkward and unsure of himself.

"Um, feel free to use the sitting room to talk," he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I'm going to head off to bed now, so I will see you in the morning, Carla."

She steps forward to take his hand and squeezes it tightly.

"Goodnight, Roy," she says. "And thank you. For everything."

He nods his head in lieu of a smile as he slips out of the room.

Carla turns to Nick and lets out a large groan. They navigate themselves to the couch and sit down on it.

"What are you going here?" Carla asks, her surprise at his appearance evident. She sighs loudly. "God, I look awful."

"No, you don't." She almost rolls her eyes at his attempt to make her feel better. He continues, "Whose clothes are you wearing, anyway?"

His eyes rake over her irresolute form. It takes her a moment to formulate speech.

"Michelle's," she says. "When I rang to tell her what had happened, she said I could use her stuff."

Nick relaxes back into the chair.

"That was nice of her."

Carla considers this.

"I suppose so," she reasons. "But this isn't really me, is it?" She pulls at the hoodie. "I love Michelle, but I can't say that I loved what I saw in her wardrobe. I'm guessing Liz packed most of her best clothes to take on her honeymoon with her."

Carla had almost forgotten about the wedding. Days seem to feel like years when one is hated by everyone.

Nick puts his hand on top of hers when he notices that she is lost in thought, knowing that her head must be a cruel and dark place to currently be in, and a voice inside of it reminds her, _not everyone_.

"Have you spoken to Leanne?"

She's barely left her thoughts. Carla wants to say that she cannot imagine the pain she is in – but she can, quite easily. Maybe that's why the guilt she feels is so strong.

"Yeah, I have," he says before changing his mind. "Well, no. I haven't, actually. I went to see her, but she didn't say much. I've never seen her like that before. It was strange. She looked..."

He finds the words he is searching for in Carla's eyes, which bore into him without knowledge of their intensity.

"Dead, almost." He feels the shuddering breath that Carla exhales as much as he hears it. "Empty."

Her voice is monotone.

"That's exactly how you feel when the people you love die. I know that more than most." She smiles bravely, moves on quickly. "She blames me, you know. Leanne blames me for what happened – and I don't blame her. I don't blame any of them. It _was_ my fault. It was my flat, my recklessness."

"Carla," he whispers.

She continues brokenly.

"I blame me."

He squeezes her hand.

"It wasn't your fault," he says calmly. "It was an accident."

Clearly irritated, Carla shrugs him off and stands, beginning to pace the room with anger in her step that is directed solely at herself.

"I left a candle burning, Nick! I went out before and I saw one of the fireman from last night at the flats. When I asked him what the most probable cause of the fire was, he said it was that. A burning candle." She closes her eyes, stops her pacing. "I had a kid staying with me, for God's sake. Amy could've died! And why? Because I was too drunk to remember to blow out a bloody candle!"

Nick frowns.

"Now, hold on a minute," he is quick to say, but Carla interrupts him.

"No, Nick. _No_." She turns to face him, her expression serious. She can't bare to hear him defend her. "I am responsible for this. Kal is dead because of _me_. The only reason Sophie's girlfriend is in intensive care is because _I_ am irresponsible. Amy's lucky to be alive. As am I; as is Leanne."

"It could've happened to anyone," Nick says weakly.

And he is right.

The rational part of Carla knows this, believes this – but the irrational part of her refuses to accept what he is saying because this _did_ happen to her. This always happens to her.

" _Nick_ ," is a begged whisper, a response to his hand on her arm.

She allows him to hold her because she needs to be held – and he is there and he is solid, his hug is warm and secure, and it makes her feel safe.

Carla buries her face into that damn coat she hardly ever sees him without, and murmurs into him, "I'm so sorry. For your flat, for everything."

It is not difficult for her to say this to Nick because she knows that he will accept her apology, even if no one else will.

They eventually let go of each other, albeit slowly and with an air of reluctance about them.

Nick smiles at her and it makes her want to smile back.

Sadly, she remembers herself just in time. She remembers what it is she has done and what it is she can't do.

She can't do _this_. (Whatever _this_ actually is.)

"You should go," she says hurriedly, the acceleration of her heart encouraging her to do so before she is able to add something else stupid to the list of what she has done wrong this week. "It's late, and – I mean no offense by this – but you look tired."

Though nowhere near as much as she does.

Nick nods his head in defeat.

"You're right."

(She isn't.)

Relief flows through Carla's body at his willingness to leave her.

"Are you staying at your mum's?" she asks with as much interest as she can muster.

"No. I'm going to stay with Gran," he corrects her.

He takes a step closer to her, and she has to hold her breath, for the way he is looking at her is too much, but not enough; her head is all over the place, but her body knows exactly what it wants.

He presses a single kiss to her forehead, whispering, "Goodnight, Carla."

She closes her eyes and a longing sigh escapes her lips that she cannot contain.

"Night," she whispers back.

* * *

She can deal with a bit of gossip. The stares are nothing she isn't used to. It's the audacity of people that she cannot cope with, how quick they are in jumping to conclusions, how willing they are to blame her for something that could've so easily not been her fault.

She isn't welcome in the shop – and going to the pub is more hassle than it's worth.

People have lost their lives and she has lost her home. They're not comparable losses. Possessions can be replaced – but they shouldn't have to be. Years of her life have passed, and she now has nothing to show for them. It's an odd, empty feeling that makes her long for what is gone. Long, long gone.

What makes it worse is the fact that it wasn't just her stuff in that flat. It was Rob's stuff, too, the stuff she managed to salvage from Tracy all those months ago, stuff that is now ashes, dust.

Everything has amounted to nothing. _Again_.

She is left with the only thing that she can ever rely upon and that is herself.

* * *

Happiness can be bought.

Carla isn't so deluded as to think that it can't be. She's bought herself enough happiness over the years, after all.

She's been a materialistic person for as long as she can remember, and this isn't what the problem is. The problem is that most other people aren't. Her inability to express herself through words causes offense. Her ability to have wealth and to share wealth, even after all that she has been through, causes outrage. A sense of injustice.

Forgiveness cannot be bought.

She realises this seconds too late.

She's never been able to begrudge a person of their grief; Alya and Zeedan are not exceptions to this rule.

They may be able to forgive her eventually, but they will never be able to forget.

No one ever does.

No one ever lets her move on, not even herself.

* * *

Life goes on because it must. It is cruel and unrelenting, and Carla doesn't think it can get much worse.

But, one night, she spends hours working late at the factory, and she receives a phone call that forces her to take a long, hard look at herself in the mirror and to stop pretending that this is happening to someone else.

Maddie dies.

Maddie, who was somebody's daughter, somebody's sister; friend; lover; colleague.

Her life was snatched away from her when it was only just beginning – and the person who snatched it away from her, however inadvertently, was Carla.

Carla can't forget that. She _won't_ forget it, either.


	5. v

_Thank you so much for your all of lovely reviews! They really mean a lot to me. I apologise in advance if this chapter contains any errors as I am currently writing to you from a field. (It's a long story!)_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **Grown Ups**

* * *

 _v_

* * *

There is no normality; there can't be. And Carla accepts this.

Kal is buried within days.

When she sees Leanne in the street, she crosses the road.

When she sees that Leanne has taken Simon to France, she wishes she could feel some sort of relief. It should come as a comfort to her that Leanne is not completely broken – she is still breathing, still living – but Carla knows that this isn't true.

Leanne's running away simply worsens her mood.

She doesn't go to Maddie's funeral, Sophie's words of a life sentence still fresh in her mind. She's right. (Most people are.) Her pity means nothing to no one. She can't expect people to live with what she has done when she can barely live with herself.

Instead, Carla spends the afternoon alone. _Completely_ alone; no whiskey, no nothing. The factory is empty, and she lets that emptiness fill her until it becomes an ache, a physicality she can't shake off. She likes the peace and the quiet, but sometimes there can be too much of it.

She remembers Nick having said something similar to her a couple of weeks ago. It shouldn't surprise her that her thoughts have taken her to him yet again – but it does. It always does because what she feels is still so new to her, so strange.

She feels she ought to be ashamed of herself, for only this morning was he proudly presenting her with pictures of his baby scan, just a blob on a piece of glossy paper she knows he will cherish in a way most men simply wouldn't dream of.

She shouldn't be thinking of him at all, but she can't help herself – and she isn't sure she would, even if she had the strength to.

* * *

The toilets are cold when she bursts into them.

She is met with her reflection upon entering, a trembling mess of a woman she is just about able to recognise. Her cheeks are flushed, her heart still trying to catch up with itself over actions that can only be describe as utterly, utterly stupid.

She has taken advantage of Nick's kindness.

She has kissed him, _again_ , and made a complete fool of herself in the process; in public, no less.

But Carla isn't stupid. She felt pressure against her lips, felt that sigh of relief, those thoughts of _yes,_ _finally_ that Nick almost gave into. The truth of the matter is, he wants her as much as she wants him, but he's far too good to do anything about it.

Not when Erica is pregnant. Not when a relationship with Carla would be made complicated as a result.

Carla takes a deep breath. She is beginning to panic, for she can't face him after that. Words are at a lost to her, and to ignore what has just taken place would be an insult to Nick's intelligence. She goes to reach for her handbag to touch up her makeup, only to find that she has left it at the bar. Which is great.

It means there is no way she can leave without facing Nick now.

Carla sighs. She doesn't know what to do. She leans against the wall, closes her eyes, and decides too quickly that she should be selfless. She should allow Nick to be happy with his almost girlfriend and his unborn baby because he'd never be happy with her. Nobody ever is, not in the long term; and Carla finds that she is beginning to care for him too much to allow him to give up the normal life he's always wanted for the chance of a _maybe_ with her.

She should encourage him to forget about _this_ ; _them_ ; _her_. If Nick moves on, she'll have to, too, and she must.

Before she is able to convince herself otherwise, Carla makes her way over to the door and exits through it.

People say that being selfless makes one feel good about oneself, and Carla will do anything to feel good right now.

It turns out – and not for the first time, either – that people lie, for as soon as she forces the words out of her mouth, the reminder of _I'm a mess, Nick_ and the truth that _you three could be incredibly happy together_ , she feels immeasurably worse.

* * *

"You look glum."

If there is one thing that Carla does not appreciate about Roy Cropper, it is his ability to read her like a open book and to do so aloud.

"Glum?" she asks.

They are sat in front of the television, but neither are paying attention to it. Roy has only switched it on for Carla's benefit, even though she is already preoccupied with the replacement phone she is still trying to get the hang of.

Roy nods.

"Yes," he explains. "Down in the mouth. Tired. Upset."

Carla looks up from her phone and manages a smile.

"I know what glum means, Roy," she says. "And I am all of those things. All of those things and more."

Roy decides to neither agree nor disagree. He stays quiet instead, pretending to watch the fishing documentary that is on the television, ignoring Carla's constant sighing until she tosses her phone aside and brings her knees up to her chin.

It is obvious that she has just read something she really didn't want to.

"Who is that you're texting?" He receives no reply. "Michelle?"

Carla speaks quickly. "No, no. It's... no one."

Roy doesn't look too sure about that, but then neither does Carla.

"Oh, right. Okay."

He drops the subject as Carla regains her composure and picks her phone back up. She rereads the last text message she has received and goes to reply to it, not because she wants to, but because she feels she must.

 _Erica and I are officially back together, thanks to you. I owe you one! x_

 _Oh, Nick. You don't owe me anything. x_

* * *

When Michelle returns from her honeymoon, Carla tells her of her relationship woes because she wants, and expects, sympathy.

Sympathy is not what she gets.

"It's just a crush, Michelle. A stupid infatuation I ought to get over. And fast." Carla tuts. "I'm too old to behaving like a bloody teenager! I should know better at my age."

Michelle's face softens. Her words follow suit.

"Yeah, but you can't help who you fall for, can you? You know that better than most."

Carla rolls her eyes. She could do without that little reminder about her, at times, appalling taste in men.

"When was the last time I had a normal relationship, eh?" Carla asks. "Can you remember? Because I certainly can't."

Michelle is quiet for a moment before she comes out with, "Normal's boring. Normal's overrated."

Carla can't keep in her incredulous snort.

"Is it?" She raises her eyebrows. "You have normal with Steve, don't you? And you're happy."

Michelle places her hand on top of Carla's.

"You don't need a man to be happy, darling," she says.

"Yes, Michelle. I'm well aware of that."

Michelle softly laughs.

"I'm just saying." She squeezes Carla's hand. "Your luck is bound to change at some point in the near future. You're well overdue some happiness and I truly believe that you are going to find it."

Carla smiles, nods, and looks down at her hands. She can see the blood on them, even if Michelle can't, and this – and this alone – is what is going to prevent her from being happy.

She doesn't deserve to be.

* * *

Carla's next meeting with Nick is brief and to the point.

They bump into each other outside the Kabin and he has a smile on his face that feels far too familiar. It's his happy smile, the one she got used to getting out of him. They make eye contact, blush ever so slightly, and apologise for not watching where they were going.

They part as friends, as they always do, and Carla walks away holding the fashion magazine she just about managed to persuade Norris to let her buy to her chest, defeated.

* * *

Carla is in Freshco, walking towards the place she knows they keep the alcohol. Dev is still refusing to serve her in the shop, his own grief and that of Sophie's fueling his anger towards her.

"Hello, you."

Carla looks up to find Nick, casually dressed and with a shopping basket in his hand. He is walking towards her.

She can't help but smile at him.

"Hello," she says, a little bit off-kilter by the fact that she is seeing him away from the street and out of his usual attire. "What are you doing here?"

He lifts up his basket. Inside it are a number of sweet and sugary snacks Carla guesses can only be for one person.

She's right.

"Erica called and said she has been craving anything and everything unhealthy," Nick explains. "I thought I'd buy her a few things. See if I can help."

Carla nods. She is touched by his thoughtfulness, even though it is not directed at her.

"Oh, I see."

They fall into step beside one another, passing the alcohol on their way down to the checkouts. Carla doesn't pick up a thing.

"What are you doing here?" Nick asks her.

"Me?" Carla shrugs and is about to tell him the real reason, for speaking her mind when in his company is something she no longer has to think about. However, she remembers before she is able to that all she seems to do is moan at him these days; he could surely do without that. "Roy said he needed to get some shopping and I volunteered to get it for him. You know, as a way of thanking him for all he's done for me and that."

The lie tastes weird in her mouth.

Nick smiles at her.

"See! You really can be a nice person," he says, before adding in a much quieter voice, "When you want to be, that is."

Carla laughs. She is about to say something in response to that when they reach the checkout – and since she has yet to collect the shopping that Roy is apparently in need of, she goes to bid Nick goodbye, but gets distracted by the card stand they have stopped in front of.

It has on it a number of Father's Day cards.

Carla picks one up with a heavy heart (though nobody is able to tell). She reads out what is on the front of it.

"Happy Father's Day from the bump."

They smile at each other.

"It won't be a bump this time next year," she reminds him. "Are you sure you're ready for the challenge of fatherhood?"

Nick nods. She has never seen him look so sure about anything.

"Of course," he says.

Their naivety is tragic.


	6. vi

_First of all, I can only apologise for the fact that it's been almost seven months since I last updated, which is pretty much unacceptable. I have no idea if anybody is still interested in this, but I hope at least someone is! It's crazy to think how much has happened since July. I mean, this was the first Carla and Nick fanfiction on here and now look! It's amazing. Anyway, it's time for me to shut up..._

* * *

 **Grown Ups**

* * *

 _vi_

* * *

He borrows the book from the community centre, a long story he shares with a smile and the promise of coffee.

"How about Louisa?"

Nick shakes his head.

"No chance. Sarah'd think we'd named the baby after her." Carla raises a brow. "You know, Sarah Lou? Sarah Louise?"

"Ah, right." She hadn't known that.

Carla turns over the page.

"These girls names are rubbish," she says with an exaggerated sigh.

Nick smiles at her, but Carla can only lower her eyes in response. _Baby names, eh?_ She never really got that far, never really thought that far ahead. A lump forms in her throat that she very quickly swallows.

"I know a good girl's name," she tells him.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." She nods, the corners of her lips tugging into a smirk. "Carla."

She splits the name up into its two syllables; her voice soft, almost resembling that of a song. Nick agrees if only to humour her. They close the book and decide to come up with their own selection of boys names, although _Barrington_ is not quite the hit Carla thought it would be. The only thing it manages to hit is that place in her heart she likes to pretend has healed, but never will.

Nick pushes his coffee cup further down the table and leans back in his chair.

"Maybe we should ask Roy," he says.

 _Maybe you should ask your girlfriend_.

But Carla doesn't say this. Not aloud. Because if she's being honest with herself, she doesn't want him to.

She'd rather he ask her.

* * *

They get drunk.

Though they act more intoxicated than they actually are, for they have somehow become intoxicated with each other and the drink is the easiest thing to blame it on.

And he knows it's wrong.

They're in the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, and he is in the middle of a relationship with a woman who is carrying a part of him inside of her – but Nick cannot find it in him to care.

He kisses her and he doesn't want to stop.

Gone is the uncertainty of before, replaced with an eagerness he'd probably be ashamed of if he were sober.

He dares to touch her. More than just her hand, caught under his at the end of a night spent talking and laughing and drinking the bar dry, her goodbye too abrupt for him to accept the first time around. No – his time, he touches her with purpose. He feels her hair between his fingers, her cheek beneath his palm.

And it's nice. She feels nice against him, so close; but he only wants her closer.

The fact that nobody catches them is something of a miracle. They are snogging in the street. There really is no other way to describe it, and it should be scandalous, and somebody should be observing it and being disapproving of it and letting that disapproval be known.

But they're not.

Nobody is around. And even if they were, it is unlikely that either Carla or Nick would notice them. Only they exist in this moment in time.

Nick reckons that if it weren't for the awkwardness of their current living arrangements, he'd have had his way with her and there'd be no going back.

But when he wakes the next morning, his head splitting and his heart feeling full, he finds himself glad that she'd pulled away from him. Because he certainly wasn't going to pull away from her and what would've been the point in risking everything for what could, potentially, amount to nothing?

* * *

He can't stop thinking about her.

This isn't a new thing. Recently, Nick has found that he can only seem to go a number of minutes before thoughts of her slip into his subconscious.

She's an attractive woman and whether he has only just realised this or whether it is knowledge he has spent years suppressing is irrelevant. She is attractive to him with her infectious grins and her hair which grows lighter the further it travels down her back. It's her dirty laugh and the softness of her touch and the way her eyes have light held within them.

However dim that light appears to be these days, it is still there. It is always there.

 _She_ is always there. There in his head.

Work drags.

He longs to see her and his longing soon becomes a need.

Even David knows and he's more often than not oblivious to all that is going on around him.

He makes Nick's mind up for him.

He's going to tell her. He's going to tell her everything.

* * *

He doesn't say a word. He can't think, he can't speak. He can barely walk and it hurts even to breathe.

 _She's lost the baby._

Lost. Why lost? Why leave the chance of him being found again when he's gone? Permanently, lost without a trace as if his existence were only ever a part of Nick's imagination.

Carla is there. She doesn't hold his hand, doesn't let him hold hers, but her eyes don't leave him because she's scared for him. Angry on his behalf and on behalf of herself.

She can't believe she's talking about her. Her daughter. A year has passed and not a single ounce of pain has faded since. If anything, the pain has only worsened with thoughts of all that could and should have been, but never will.

Every bathtime missed, every kiss never placed to her baby's crown. No giggles in the evening or soft food at breakfast.

No nothing.

No memories, no hopes for the future. Just a picture from the past that's now creased around the edges.

A baby girl without a name.

Nick and his baby boy, equally as nameless.

It all feels so incomplete. A thread neither are sure they want to hold on to is all they are left with. But they know they couldn't let go of it, even if a choice were involved. What they feel will be with them for life. This sense of injustice; the what ifs and the what might have beens.

It's only right. Even though everything else about the situation they have found themselves in is completely and utterly wrong.

* * *

She finds out where Audrey lives from Maria because she is desperate to see him, desperate to know how he is and how he is feeling. It can't be any better than the night before, but she supposes it can't be much worse.

It's early when she arrives at the house. A Saturday morning.

She knocks twice on the door. Waits for an answer. The answer she receives leaves her heart in her mouth. Nick, topless, having only just woken.

She takes him in; her expression distant, lips ever so slightly parted. She takes in his ruffled hair, his bloodshot eyes deprived of sleep... _his body_. God, it is not how she had expected it to be and she looks at it for much longer than she knows she should, hating herself for it when considering the reason she is here in the first place.

She swallows thickly as he flashes her a somewhat unsure smile. He is obviously surprised to see her.

"Hi," she says softly. "I was just wondering how you were doing, you know."

He folds his arms across his chest. A defensive action which draws her attention to all the wrong places.

"Thank you," he says. She knows he means it, but grief and exhaustion is thick in his voice and she regrets her interfering almost immediately. He just wants to be left alone.

"So..."

She bounces on one foot and then the other.

"I'm fine," he says weakly.

"No, you're not."

"Carla -"

"You don't have to be fine. Not right now." His deep exhale panics her. He seems irritable; irritated. She rushes her words. "You spoke to Erica?"

"No."

She nods.

"Are you going to?"

Nick merely shrugs. She doesn't think she has ever seen him looking quite so lost, so unsure as to what the right thing to do is.

He is staring at her face and she feels it all over. He is then scratching his head and pulling the door in front of him, as if remembering the circumstances in which they have found themselves and the inappropriateness of his attire.

"I'm really touched that you've come to see me, you know? But you don't wanna be around me today. Trust me, no one wants to be around me when I'm like this."

Carla nods, weaker than before.

"Okay," she says. "But call me if you need me, yeah?"

His promise is the slightest of smiles.

The door shuts in her face and there is a burning in her chest, an unease about her throat.

* * *

She spends the rest of the day staring at the walls of Roy's living room, thinking she loves him. _Loves_ him.

Nick.

She _loves_ Nick.

And deep down, she knows the feeling is very much mutual. Because she feels it in places she wishes she didn't. But it's there all the same; this persistent ache.

She aches for him. Thoughts become physical.

* * *

 _Is this a reasonable place to finish? Is it worth me going any further? You tell me ;)_


End file.
